


People Like Us

by facade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anger, Angst, Gen, Jealousy, Letters, Regret, Restlessness, Short Chapters, first person POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:12:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>No, no one knows what it’s like to be people like us. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A compilation of excerpts from letters exchanged between footballers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: People Like Us

**Author's Note:**

> *There's a chance the relationships may grow beyond friendships but I haven't thought that far ahead yet. Names may be added as well. Chapters are unlikely to surpass 1000 words due to the nature of this.*

_No one knows what it’s like to be the villain, to be jeered from the moment you step onto the pitch until the moment you step off of it, each minute filled with a new insult, a new way of tearing you down. No, they don’t know what it’s like to be hated by people who don’t even know you, by people who don’t even care enough to get to know you, to have a mob committed to nothing other than the hatred of you. They have never read a sign condemning them to hell, they have never seen a big red “X” over an image of themselves, they have never seen commercials making a mockery of them. No, no one knows what it’s like to be the villain..._

_No one knows what it’s like to be put under a microscope, no, not of this magnitude. They don’t know what it’s like to have everything they ever said broken down: analyzed, scrutinized. They don’t know what it’s like to turn on the television, to see their words in quotes with their meaning misconstrued, to pick up a tabloid and see a picture of themselves with another lie beneath their own name. No, they don’t know what it’s like to live your life in the eyes of thousands, to be seen by millions, and heard, understood, by so few. They don't know what it's like to be swarmed by journalist after journalist, to see nothing more than a blinding flash in the place of your own child's eyes. No, no one knows what it’s like to live under a microscope..._

_No one knows what it’s like to bear the weight of a nation, to bear the hopes and dreams of millions on the shoulders of one. They don’t know what it’s like to see their country fall to shambles, suffering more and more with each passing day, holding on to a flickering light of hope - clenching at the hem of your jersey. They don’t know what it’s like to look into those eyes, your own filled with tears, and tell them that you have failed them once again. They don't know what it's like to stand, wrapped in the flag of your home, and lift a trophy, not for you but for them. They don't know what it's like to hold the power to inspire your countrymen or the power to crush and demoralize them. No, no one knows what it’s like to bear the weight of a nation…_

_No one knows what it’s like to deal with this amount of pressure, to be **the** face, their face. They don’t know what it’s like to put on this jersey - to bleed for it, to sweat for it, to suffer for it - and face the expectation it carries with it. They don’t understand the significance of the crest, the weight that it carries - the heaviness of it upon failure, the inspiration it forces through your veins when all looks lost, the way it seems to glow in moments of success. No, no one knows what it’s like to wake up to and succeed under that sort of pressure..._

_No, no one knows what it’s like to be people like us._

 

 

 


	2. ...from the sidelines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iker Casillas and Kaka

_I watch from the sidelines now but it wasn’t always this way; it hadn’t been this way in over a decade. I used to be the face of this club, they used to chant my name from the stands, but the chants of San Iker have faded now, now no more than a few whispers of hope, of a time that once was. Fourteen years unparalleled, fourteen years at a level all my own, fourteen years of inspiring a fear within a striker that only I could... but after fourteen years, here I am, on the sidelines watching as a new face takes the place of mine. I watched every move he made, every goal he saved, every reaction he had when a ball would fall to a forward’s feet. If I had known that he intended on making a home of my home, I would’ve done more than simply watched._

_I watched from the sidelines as we lost, as my team and our fans shook their heads in disappointment, thinking of everything he had done wrong, everything I could have done better, thinking of how he had let the team down. I watched from the sidelines as we drew, thinking of his complacency, thinking of his slow reaction time. I watched from the sidelines as we overcame the odds and took control of the league, thinking about how he had gone untested, thinking about how it had nothing to do with him. That’s all it seems I do anymore, watch from the sidelines and think. That’s all it seems I can do._

_I asked all of the coaches why they no longer held their confidence within me, I asked them where it had gone to after fourteen years, I asked them why they insisted on starting him over me. **“Two great goalkeepers in fine form, compromises have to be made.”** So I decided to take advantage of the times I did play, in the Champions League and in the Copa, to show them that I was in finer form. I gave up five goals in one and zero in the latter, yet still, in the league, I sit and watch from the sidelines._

_I watched from the sidelines as one of my closest friends slid the armband upon his sleeve, wearing it with all the reverence and pride I had once. I watched as he directed the team, lifted them up, doing everything I had ever done. I don’t know how much longer I can do this, sit idly by and simply watch from the sidelines as I am replaced._

_I guess what I’m trying to ask is, how are you?_

 

 


	3. ...rewrite those pages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fernando Torres and Michael Owen

_I had a dream last night, though, I can’t be too sure if it was a dream or if it was a nightmare; it felt so real but deep down inside I knew it never could be. A stadium full of supporters, except the banners around the stadium told me that they had to be rival fans. I hadn’t heard a single “what a waste of money” chant, though. I had walked through the tunnel and out onto the pitch without a single newspaper being displayed in the stands, nothing talking about what a disappointment I am. There were no hateful signs displayed. I could only see the posters of the rival fans: supporting their team, proudly dawning their colors. One last glance around and I knew where I was: Old Trafford._

_I had a dream last night and in it I could smell the damp pitch before I had even stepped on it, it was only four in the afternoon but the lights illuminating the grounds were blinding enough for me to have to shield my eyes. The chants and screams: deafening. The atmosphere: euphoric. I could have sworn to you that it was real, all of it, but there was just something off, something about it all that didn’t feel right. I had to know..._

_I had a dream last night, I felt as if I was suffocating in it, as if the world was collapsing all around me accompanied by the feeling of my heart jumping into my throat. John had asked me if I had taken a knock to my head before he answered my question: it was September 18th and halftime... I needed to be anywhere but there. I tried to tell John. I tried to tell him to tell Villas-Boas to sub me off, that it was detrimental to the team that I not be here, but he just looked at me as if I had gone insane before telling me to calm down and find my starting position. **“We just went through this, Torres. We’re still in it!”** I looked up to the scoreboard as I found my place, it was just as it had always been in my nightmares: Manchester United 3 : 1 Chelsea._

_I had a dream last night and I can still hear the sound of the the starting whistle being blown from it, it sounded so real, piercing through the thunderous shouts of the fans. The sounds of the boots hitting the earth, the smell of dirt and sweat entwining; none of it felt like a dream, it felt more like a second chance._

_I was simply going through the motions at first; it seemed as if my body was on autopilot because it already knew what I was about to do. I kept at it, going through the motions, until I heard the roaring of the crowd, until I heard the whistle of the referee. Without even looking at the clock, I just knew it was the fiftieth minute. I could smell my own sweat and feel my heart pounding as I watched Rooney miss the penalty again, experienced the relief again._

_I had a dream last night, though in the late stages of it, I saw nothing more than the clock; I kept my eyes glued to it, anxiety building as we approached the eighty-third... And then it happened: the ball was at my feet again, I sidestepped DeGea with as much ease as I remembered, and there it was, the open goal, the pressure..._

_I had a dream last night about that moment that broke and reshaped my career. I just wish it was real, wish I could take that moment back, rewrite the pages, then maybe things wouldn't have been so bad._ _Forgive me for being repetitive, I just have to keep reminding myself that it was just a dream._

_I guess what I’m trying to ask is, how are you?_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, myself, chuckled a bit because Michael Owen was with Manchester United when this game happened though he hadn't been called up for it. So you know...


	4. ...because ten is greater than eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neymar to Gareth

_I hear them whispering again: in the streets, in the stadiums, in the press. They must think of me as deaf as they seem shocked every time I choose to react to them. “The pitch isn’t blue”, some whisper, 'it isn’t blue so players like [me] wouldn’t get the wrong impression'. Do the shorts of my kit appear as swimming trunks to them, my sweat as mere water? Do they not see that I'm willing to bleed for this crest, this club, this ideology? Simulation? They whisper their allegations, their empty opinions like they know what it’s like to be out there, on that pitch with those... legends. They whisper like they would never falter under the very pressure that they’ve thrown onto me and I, I dare them to try. I'd like to see them put on this kit, these boots, I'd like to see them run out there and try to take on two defenders, even one. I expected to hear the murmurs from those clad in white, those on the other side of Spain, but I never... Never had I expected to hear such things from someone adorned in the colors of the blaugrana. “...not worth the hassle and the job of another,” others have whispered, “he hasn’t lived up to that hefty price tag” they would say as if I had put the price on myself._

_You don't even have to listen carefully to hear them whispering: they murmur about a lot of things but no one, no one bothered to whisper the one secret I needed to hear the most… I listened as carefully as I could but I heard it from no one. No one said that adjusting to this country, this league would be this difficult. No one said that the media would be this harsh, this cynical. No, no one told me that these fans, these Cules, were just as likely to knock you down as they were to embrace you, kiss you on the cheek. That they were just as likely to jeer you as they were to cheer for you. Hot and cold. Hateful and loving. Always from one extreme to the next. Such is Spain..._

_...and again, I hear them whispering and it's strange, so strange because they never whispered in my dreams... they would only smile and throw praise in my direction. They would chant my name in my dreams, refer to me as a growing legend of Barcelona, never once would they question my position within the club. I wore the colors of the blaugrana - without ever feeling the weight of them, of the crest - in the same manner as Ronaldo and Romario, Rivaldo and Ronaldinho, Macedo and Alves in my dreams. I would dream of the Clasico, outscoring Ronaldo and the rest of Madrid with ease. I only wanted my dreams to finally materialize as a reality ...but it isn’t the reality, far from it actually. The pressure on my shoulders and the weight of the crest are much heavier than I ever expected them to be. It feels like I’m dragging a ball and chain behind me each time I try to make a run down the left wing, like someone has their grip wrapped tightly around my ankle each time I try to deliver a cross. In reality, I’m jeered by the home fans more than I’m cheered, I can feel the scrutiny of their gaze burning into my skin each time I touch the ball rather than hear the cheers of admiration from my dreams. "Is Neymar playing today?" "He should be on the bench." "No, wait. I see him. He's on the pitch." "He should be on the bench."_

_I heard their whispers. They were expecting me to be Barcelona’s “Cristiano”: the tabloids, the fans, the club, me... and what a disappointment [I've] proved to be. They were expecting me to adapt instantly: to the culture, to the style of play, to the team and oh, what a disappointment [I've] proved to be. They expected for me to be on the left wing when they needed me but they, they never made the room for me. They expected for me to go out there, go out onto that pitch and exploit spaces when the rival defense would open up but their tiki-taka, this ideology that has become Barcelona, closed all of the spaces down before I could ever find myself within them. They expected so much from me but they never made room for me._

_I hear their whispers, feel their eyes burning through the skin and jersey of their failing eleven and I... I guess what I’m trying to say is, I hope Spain and Real Madrid are all that you dreamed they would be._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is (kind of - for the most part) irrelevant but there's logic behind it: Cristiano was allegedly angry about Mesut Ozil (RMA - 10) leaving Real Madrid because of Gareth Bale's (RMA - 11) transfer at the start of the season and Neymar (BAR - 11) has to play second fiddle to Lionel Messi (BAR - 10) on a team whose style of play was constructed around their number ten. I just thought you guys should know that... It's all irrelevant though. 
> 
> Keep in mind that I started writing this before the conclusion of the season and I intend on using post-dated (and not current) information throughout. :)


End file.
